


Letters

by we_could_be_heroes



Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_could_be_heroes/pseuds/we_could_be_heroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from the after-canon years in which Maurice and Alec disagree about reaching out to one's family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters

“But she's your _mother_ ,” Alec says, as if that settled everything. It's not the first time this has happened, it's not really a clash of opinions but rather the amazement of one of them that the other might even think something so bizarre.

“But I did not choose her as my mother, I have no more obligation to her than I do to, say, that woman over there,” Maurice nods toward a slouched old woman, weighed down by hefty bags shifting her way across the platform, one small step at a time. They both stare at her for a while and then Alec frowns at Maurice in disbelief. This would be the moment when he might accompany his words with a physical gesture, touch Maurice's arm to accentuate his point, but they have long learned to subdue their interactions in public and so they continue their debate in calm, hushed voices.

“What? What are you even on about?" Alec asks. "Your mother gave birth to you, she cared for you and loved you and - all that. And maybe she didn't have much choice in that either. She's your _family._ ” He uses the last word as the trump card to end all conversation. While to Maurice, family have been always been those people he only vaguely cared for and hardly ever understood, to Alec, they are the select ones, elevated above all other humans by the mere virtue of being related to him.

“You're my family more than she'll ever be,” Maurice says, drawing a powerful card of his own, but Alec won't be swayed by flattery.

“I ... not like _her_ , Maurice. Stop acting so dense. You'll only ever have one mother. I don't get what you don't get about this. All you have to do is stoop to write to her, let her know you're-”

But Maurice has already walked off down the platform and then the train thunders in and people pile out onto the platform and Alec's point is lost in all the commotion. The ensuing trip takes place in silence, Alec not being one to insist on a touchy topic and Maurice silently rehearsing arguments to questions he won't be asked.

By the time they arrive to Exeter where they have only a few minutes to change trains, enough time has passed to dull the sharpness of the disapproval they feel for the other's view. As they linger on the platform, fate presents a new stimulus in the form of an eye-catching newspaper headline.

“Maurice, come on! You can read it on board.”

Maurice rummages in his pockets for coin for the paper boy. Their new train starts moving, puffing thick black smoke and they have to run to make it on board. Alec flops down on the wooden bench next to Maurice, peering over his shoulder.

“Well, it's sad for them, but well, it's not like we knew these people,” Alec says.

"Uh-huh," Maurice says absently, scanning the page.

Alec, too, leans closer to continue reading. His shoulder and thigh press against Maurice's and when Maurice realizes Alec has placed his hand on the inside of his knee, he shakes him off, rustling the newspaper warningly, and shifts away. They exchange a look, Maurice stern and Alec exasperated and spread the newspaper between them, each holding one sheet.

“Makes you feel sorry for the wife,” Alec says.

“Yes, yes, the wife.” Maurice mutters automatically.

The news is shocking to him. He doesn't feel much pity either for the archduke or his wife at the moment, but he feels shaken by it. The news is sensational in itself - an assassination is both disturbing and alluring – but he's offended by it on a more personal level. He has considered himself quite cut off from society for almost a year now and feels violated by moments when some deeply ingrained residues of social conscience force him, for some reason, to care, to feel involved. What did he care about these people? Alec was right, he did not know them and did not have any reason to feel anything about anything that happened to them.

“Well, you're right, it's all the way in Serbia,” Maurice lets go of the newspaper at last, leaving it to Alec. “It's nothing to do with England.”

 

****

 

“Ada Hall.”

The nurse startles and looks into the patient's brown eyes. They are glazed over by the fever, but dark with certainty.

“Yes?” She steps closer to him, hesitant. “Would you like some water?” How did you know, she wants to ask, but cannot utter the question as something suppressed, but insistent tells her she already knows the answer.

“He told me about you. Maurice. I was sure it was you the first time you came here. Those are Maurice's eyes, I thought. And that is Maurice's hair.”

“Maurice has two sisters.”

“He does. But you're Ada.”

“I am,” she says and moves closer. There are no chairs so she stands next to him, looking down at him. She feels her face grow red - anger or shame? But about what? She does feel something, she brims with things left unsaid, but the stranger is not the one who needs to hear them.

“I am Chapman now. Not Hall,” is the first thing she thinks of telling him.

“Mrs. Chapman then, alright.”

“You brought shame on our family.”

“Can you get a letter to Maurice?”

“At first we thought he emigrated, had to hide from the law because of the speculating.”

“I reckoned his family would be informed of his whereabouts and his,” he swallows dryly, “well-being.”

Ada holds a glass of water to him and he sits up and takes it from her. As he drinks, she continues: “Clive told me about you. Maurice was always cruel to me, but I never imagined the depths of depravity he could sink to.”

The patient returns the glass to her hand and she realizes she doesn't remember his name. She's only just come to this ward and has been far too busy flitting between the scores of sick and wounded to learn their names. People come and go too quickly to keep the labels on their beds up-to-date. Clive mentioned the name of the gamekeeper once, but she only remembers it sounded sticky like the whole business with Maurice.

“Mrs. Chapman, will you write a letter to Maurice for me?”

“I have no desire to be party to your sin," she says, "I have many patients here ... I must return to them.”

“I'd do it myself but can't on account of my arm. If you could spare just a minute to let me dictate it to you, you would be most kind. ”

“I will have nothing to do with you or with him. In all this time, we haven't heard a word - he couldn't even be bothered to write to us, not once.”

“I don't know where he is. We got separated. But I'm sure his family gets informed?”

There's no letter paper or envelopes left in the field hospital, but she takes out her own notebook and writes inside it. She doesn't promise anything, but when her shift is finally over, she reads it again and then determines to make it her mission to get it delivered. She will never forgive Maurice, but that night, she feels finally free to forgive herself.


End file.
